


In This Moment I Am Happy

by poisontaster



Series: Every Broken Thing [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Season/Series 01, Secret Relationship, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-30
Updated: 2006-04-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5598220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place between "Dead Man's Blood" and "Salvation". In the ways that only Dean can, he makes it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Moment I Am Happy

**Author's Note:**

> If I ask of you is it all right  
>  If I ask you to hold me tight  
>  Through a cold, dark night  
>  'Cause there may be a cloudy day in sight  
>  And I need to let you know that I might  
>  Be needing your love.  
>  -Paul McCrane, "Is it Okay if I Call You Mine?" 

"Stay here," Dean pushes on Sam's shoulder when he makes to get out of the car.  
  
Sam looks at him, curious. "Didn't you just tell Dad we were going to the bar?"  
  
Dean makes a ' _yeah, yeah_ ' face. "And here we are. Bar." Dean flaps a hand at the low slung building, red neon glinting off his ring. "Nobody said we had to stay." He pauses a second, like he's going to say something else. Sam watches the impulse—whatever it was—die and Dean substitutes, "Hang out for a sec."

Normally this is where he'd argue with Dean, but the truth is that his head aches, his whole _body_ aches, and he feels like the outside layer of his skin's been abraded away, laying bare things he'd just as soon everyone in the world didn't see. So Sam just nods and hunches down a little more in the seat. Dean's hand skates over Sam's arm, pats his shoulder fast and meaningless and then he climbs out.

Sam scrubs a hand over his face, then plants his elbow on the door and lets his head balance on his palm. His skin feels too warm and slightly clammy. He can't believe he just lost it like that. Just totally flipped the fuck out. His chest _still_ hurts, feeling slightly too tight and too small under the skin, and he's really conscious of every breath in and out of his lungs.

Everything seemed so simple in the beginning; find dad, find the demon, make it pay and then go back to his life; his quote unquote _real_ life. And now… And now…what? He's closer to those goals than ever and…and…

The door to the Impala opens with its characteristic dry squeak—Dean just out and out refuses to do anything about it, even though he'll putter with and polish everything else for _hours_ —and Sam startles, jolted out of his train of thought. Dean slides in again, a paper bag in hand that clanks glassily.

"What kind did you get?" Sam asks, blinking widely.

"Does it matter? From the look of you, one beer's gonna put you on your ass anyway."

"Doesn't mean it has to taste like piss water doing it."

"I'm not even going to ask what you were doing at that college that you know what 'piss water' tastes like," Dean comments, putting his arm over the back of the seat and craning his neck as he reversed out of the tight parking spot. Once they're out on the two lane highway again, though, Dean doesn't bother to move his arm, fingertips teasing the hairs at the back of Sam's neck. It hovers somewhere between irritating and soothing and so Sam forebears comment.

"So…back to the hotel?" he asks instead, and ignores the way that thought makes his stomach knot and catch. While Dad was missing and potentially in danger, it had been easier to forget all the irritating day to day realities of life with John Winchester. It had been easier, too, to forget the logistics of…sneaking around with one's brother behind said father's back. God, that sounds sordid, even if it's the truth. He loves their dad with a fierceness he can't even articulate, but he's come to realize he loves him best at a distance.

Dean glances sideways, a look Sam can't interpret, even if it wasn't tar-pit black outside. "No," Dean says, tone as bland as his expression. "I had someplace else in mind."

 

 

Sam's even more puzzled when the car finally rolls to a standstill in the high grass and gravel of the turnaround.

"Dean…there's nothing out here."

"Your powers of observation floor me, Sam. Really. Get out of the goddamn car." Dean closes his door with a thump and goes around to the trunk, rummaging around loudly.

Sam considers just staying there. It's black as pitch out here and the last thing he wants is to go and get drunk and then spend the rest of the night tramping around the woods and fields trying to find the car again. He's halfway to just curling up on the Impala's seat and saying 'fuck it'.

"Sam-my!" Dean bangs on the window with the heel of his hand.

Of course, plans like that don't take the force of nature that is Dean into account. Sam sighs and climbs out, stretching.

To his surprise, Dean steps into him, the hand not occupied with an enormous bundle of…something sliding across the flat, downy expanse of Sam's stomach and up under his shirt. Dean tilts his head up and back and brushes across Sam's mouth, chapped, broken skin and smooth edges—Dean's been chewing up his lips again. Sam's startled enough that he opens his mouth and Dean's tongue laps in, sliding over and around Sam's.

Sam puts his hand over Dean's, separated by the thin cloth of his shirt, and can almost feel the beat of his own heart, translated at one remove. The other hand slides up Dean's arm to grip his shoulder, holding Dean in place.

He doesn't know how long they stand like that, not grinding, hardly moving at all, except for the cling and shift of their lips and tongues. It's not sexual, exactly, although Sam's cock is starting to stand up and pay attention and he can feel against his thigh that Dean's is too. But he also feels the band of tightness around his chest ease and relax, letting him take what feels like his first full breath in hours.

After a while, Dean rocks back on his heels and Sam opens his eyes slow and lazy. There's a smile flitting around his mouth and he asks, "Are we…? Is this a _date_ , Dean?"

He says it mostly to see Dean's expression, that funny combination of embarrassed and pissed. Dean doesn't disappoint, swiping at him with his free hand. Sam ducks, laughing and they step apart.

"You are _such_ an asshole." Dean scowls and stalks off into the first fringes of trees, leaving Sam to follow him.

"Where are we going?" Sam ducks under a branch, testing his way carefully. If it's dark out by the car, it's absolutely lightless under the trees and Sam has visions of walking dead into the trunk of something and knocking himself silly. And Dean would probably tell him it served him right.

"Oh my God, can't you go _two seconds_ without a question?" Dean's voice floats back to him. "Just come _on_."

"Dean?" Sam calls, moving a little faster. He's not afraid of the dark, and he's not unarmed in any case, but it bothers him, not being able to see Dean. Especially now. "Dean, where…"

At once, Dean's right in front of him, just a suggestion of shape and the whites of his eyes. "C'mon you big baby," he says, less harshly than Sam expects and he thrusts his hand into Sam's, unexpected but impatient.

Sam's so surprised he doesn't even have a chance to properly wisecrack before Dean's damn near tugging him off his feet. Sam grips Dean's fingers hard, ducks his head and hopes Dean remembers that Sam's got a good four or five inches of height on him. Sam is totally disoriented; he also hopes that Dean has some idea of where they are and where they're going, or they're going to be looking for the Impala all night and into tomorrow.

But eventually, he notices shapes and shadows becoming clearer, more separate. Ahead, there's moonlight, like a searchlight after the woods. Dean leads him out onto…a rock. A huge flat, glacial rock, vaguely arrow shaped and jutting out over a plunging darkness Sam guesses is a ravine. For the first time, Sam realizes the noise he's relegated to the background is the sound of water, somewhere far below.

Dean lets go of his hand, drops something and shakes out the bundle over his arm. It turns out to be a mover's pad, thick and quilted and just about large enough for both of them if they squish. And if Sam doesn't mind his feet sticking off the end. Sam just stares stupidly, not sure what this is, or how he even got here. "Oh my God, this _is_ a date," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

"Will you quit it with all that date shit and stop being such a pansy ass about all this? God, you act like I never do anything nice for you." Dean shoves Sam towards the pad and down. Sam lets himself be shoved, going to his knees.

"You mean there are times you have?" Dean smacks him upside the ear. "Ow!"

"I'll remember that the next time you want the last of the Lucky Charms, dude."

"Oh my God, Dean, I was…like… _four_." Sam pulls Dean down next to him, shoulders rubbing.

"Huh." Dean pushes Sam down flat and then eases back himself, the two of them scrunching and shoving to find equilibrium. "Still. Point still stands."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I will buy you a whole _box_ of Lucky Charms, if that's what it takes."

"With what money, college boy?" Dean asks smugly. Then he elbows Sam in the side. Even through the jacket, he jabs like a shiv in the ribs. "And shut up and enjoy the view."

It _is_ pretty awesome; the tree cover recedes enough to become only a fuzzy frame around the enormous vista of the sky, like an upturned bowl arching into infinite distances. The moon is three-quarters full and still doesn't steal the light from the stars. Sam shifts to tuck one arm under his head and his knee bumps gently against Dean's. Dean moves his arm so that it lies along Sam's side, fingertips curling and uncurling gently on Sam's thigh.

It's such a _stupid_ , easy gesture, but Sam feels it close up his throat again, desperate and aching. Because this could be gone. Like Mom. Like Jess. Tomorrow, the next day… It doesn't even have to be death. It could just slip through his fingers.

"Sam…" Dean's voice is exasperated, rough with tiredness. "I can hear you thinking from here, man. Just…quit it."

And he's right, Dean's right; Sam knows it, but he can't make his brain shut up, can't make his nerves shut down.

"Sam—" Dean cuts himself off, sighs. Starts over. "What'd you do with the beer?"

"I… Wait. _I_ was supposed to bring the beer?"

"Well, _yeah_. I was busy getting the blanket. Of _course_ you were supposed to bring the beer."

"And…when were you going to tell me this?"

"Well, _you're_ the psychic one." Dean sighs. "You have no sense of priorities."

Sam takes Dean's hand—the one on his thigh—and moves it several inches to the left, so that it rests over his cock, still half-hard even after their scramble through the woods. "Funny," Sam says, grinding the heel of Dean's hand down against him and pushing his hips up a little bit, "I was just about to say the same thing about you."

"Sam—"

Sam rolls over and brings his mouth over Dean's. Some of it is shutting Dean up, the quickest and most effective method he's ever found. But some of it is just…having Dean here, just them again and Dean like _this_ , willing to do and be whatever because he knows Sam needs it. Because he knows Sam needs him.

And Dean's not much for questioning opportunity, God love him; the breath goes out of him into Sam's mouth. One of his hands cups the back of Sam's head, tugging, and the other slides over the strip of bared skin between Sam's pants and shirt to come to rest at the small of Sam's back, tracing circles that send signals of _want_ and _need_ and _ohgodmore_ up Sam's nervous system. Sam moans, soft and deep in his throat, and Dean moans back, the quiet almost hurtful noise he makes when he wavers between want and regret.

Sam runs his hands under the hem of Dean's shirt, molding the heated contours of muscle and skin until he finds the hardened points of Dean's nipples and scrapes across them deliberately rough with the ragged edges of his fingernails. Dean makes little huffing, gasping noises, his hips bucking up. Sam throws his leg over to straddle Dean's hips, holding him down, and does it again, loving the way Dean blinks hard, eyes wide, like he can't quite focus on Sam right there in front of him.

Both of Dean's hands on the warm skin of Sam's back now, massaging and digging as Sam rocks back and forth against him, creating a closed and fused circuit. "Sam…Sam…" Dean murmurs through Sam's lips. Sam keens a denial, shoving his tongue deeper, pushing his hips down harder.

Dean's hands leave Sam's back and cup either side of Sam's head, pulling him back. Sam doesn't want to go, but Dean also wrenches his face aside. They part with a wet sound and pant. Their breath hangs silver and feathery. "Sam… I didn't…"

"I just want to," Sam says urgently, trying to run over the top of Dean's voice. As if that ever works. "I just want to, Dean; c'mon, aren't you always saying _I'm_ the one who thinks too much…? This doesn't have to be complicated."

"You're telling _me_ something doesn't have to be complicated?" Dean demands, though he's smiling. His thumbs brush arcs on either side of Sam's face. "I just…I didn't plan this. I didn't bring anything."

"You were going to get me all the way out here and _not_ get laid?" Sam tickles his fingertips over Dean's skin, watching Dean squirm, feeling it. "Who are you and what have you done with my brother?"

"I was being helpful!" Dean growls.

"And you were saying _my_ priorities are out of whack," Sam grumbles back. He uses Dean's shoulder to lever himself up, his knees taking his weight. Dean's fingers trail down his back--making Sam arch up and backwards--before coming to rest on the waistband of Sam's pants.

"S'other stuff we can do," Dean offers and thumbs open the button of Sam's jeans. The jeans are old and almost worn out; it only takes a tug for the zipper to fall and then Dean's slipping through the fly and into Sam's underwear. Sam's fingers tighten on Dean's shoulder as Dean strokes him, slow and deliberate, thumb pressing hard against the underside of his cock.

Sam's head falls back on his neck, all the ugly and stressful tension of the past several days fading under the onslaught of an entirely different kind of tension. _Yes. Oh, yes._ His knees pull in tight against Dean's side and Dean rolls up against him in response, breath hissing out through his teeth.

"Dean—" Sam's breath catches and stutters, aching dully in his chest as Dean sets up a rhythm; hand on Sam's cock, erection grinding hard between Sam's spread legs. "Dean, I…"

"Shh." Dean's other hand leaves Sam's hip to brush the ball of his thumb over Sam's dry lips before pressing the digit into Sam's mouth. Sam groans softly, accepting Dean's thumb over his teeth and against his tongue, suckling; he can't help it. "We can… We don't… It's all right, Sam."

Sam shakes his head and arches back a second time, letting Dean's spit slick thumb trace over his lips again. "I _have_ lube, Dean," he says finally, putting his hand over Dean's to still the insidious slip-slide of Dean's fingers. He reaches into his back pocket and produces a little packet.

The look on Dean's face would be comical in other circumstances. If Sam weren't far more interested in the fastest way to get them both naked and Dean inside of him. "Sammy!" he says, incredulous, "you fucking _Boy Scout_!"

Heat flushes Sam's skin. "Shut up," he mutters, dropping the lube onto Dean's chest and then arching up and back to strip his shirt over his head. The air's cold and he's immediately engulfed in gooseflesh, but he finds he doesn't care much.

They shouldn't do this. It's reckless and crazy and wrong. Dean was right; fucking won't fix anything.

But Sam's not looking to be fixed. Things are fucked up and they're not likely to be any less so in the immediate future. This may be the last time he'll have this; the last time to be SamandDean with no spaces and no division.

He didn't have this knowledge with Jess, hadn't been aware of their time slipping through his hands like a loose hawser until it tore the flesh from him. He has it now. Live or die, he'll have it.

"It's your fault I carry it," Sam grumbles, skinning out of the rest of his clothes while Dean wriggles backwards to dispose of his own. "If you knew how to keep your hands to yourself…"

Down to just his jeans and boxers, Dean lunges forward, one broad hand slipping between Sam's legs. Dean cocks his head, grin glinting almost silver in the dark. "You really want me keeping my hands to myself, a moment like this?" Dean asks. His fingers aren't as long as Sam's, but they're dexterous and it's only a second before Sam's panting and whining. "C'mere," Dean says, and then they're falling, crashing, tumbling down on the pad again, hands greedy and everywhere on each other. "Here—" Dean reaches sideways and produces another quilted pad, drags it up and over Sam's naked shoulders.

"Not yet," Sam avers, slithering up Dean's body to straddle him again. The silver foil of the packet of lube glitters above Dean's shoulder; Sam snags it and rips it open. "Give me your hand."

"And what are you going to be doing?" Dean drawls, though he does it, other hand alternately gripping and relaxing on Sam's thigh, thumb making arcs over skin and hair.

"Well this only works if we're both ready, right?" Sam asks, coating both his hands and one of Dean's with the sticky slick fluid. He guides Dean's hand to Dean's cock, closes his hand over it and starts to jack, smooth and silken. Dean's head and neck arch up, his shoulders leaving the blanket and making a choked off noise in his throat. It makes Sam smile, pleased he can make Dean feel, sound, like that; pleased by the noises themselves, nothing like any other sound Dean makes. "Dean," he says, pitching his voice low. _"Dean."_

Dean's head comes up and Sam makes sure Dean's watching him as he reaches around and slips the first finger inside himself. Dean's cock _jerks_ in their conjoined grip and Dean's breath explodes out of his lungs on a gasp. "Oh…oh _shit_ , fuck, _Sam_ …" Dean bucks and writhes into his hand. "Sam…do it. Wanna see. Wanna watch you. Oh God, please…do it."

Sam doesn't feel the cold anymore, less important, less _real_ than Dean's eyes on him, wondering, marveling and hot as Sam fucks himself open on his own fingers. He's rough and sloppy with it and not just from impatience. He wants it to hurt. It _should_ hurt. But more than that, he remembers their first time—angry, half-hateful, half-desperate—and the marks it had left. Bruises and pains that took weeks to entirely fade. He can't afford marks now; not under Dad's watchful eye, but he can take away from this the sense memory of Dean inside him, pain and satisfaction both.

"Help me?" he whispers to Dean, his voice rusty and jagged. Dean swallows and nods, their fingers coming apart from Dean's cock. Dean cradles Sam's hip with one hand and holds himself upright with the other. Dean guides him on and Sam guides himself down, taking Dean into him. Too fast; Dean lets out a strangled noise, belly and hips shaking with the effort of stillness. His fingers bite down and Sam knows he'll have marks anyway. Sam bites his lip, breathing hard and unsteady.

"Sam…wait, wait…" Dean starts to sit, holding Sam at both hips now. "You're going to hurt…"

Sam puts his palm over Dean's mouth momentarily, silencing him as he shifts and rocks, working himself down. "It's okay," he says, even though his voice shakes. "It's… _fuck_ , it's okay."

Dean gives him the doubtful _c'mon man_ look, but he doesn't say anything, tongue held between his own teeth in concentration as Sam takes him deeper. It looks sexy as anything and Sam pulls Dean up to him, opening Dean's mouth to his.

Dean's hand splays against the base of Sam's spine and Sam can feel Dean's ring—slightly cooler than the surrounding flesh. It's such a small thing, but it's such a _Dean_ thing as well; as much as the body underneath him, inside him, as much as the wisecracks and silly pranks and the dangerous _don't fuck with me_ tone of his voice when he asks, "You okay, little brother?"

Sam's hands tighten on Dean's skin; he tightens his body around Dean, dragging a deep _basso profundo_ groan out of him. "Harder," Sam murmurs, rocking—thrusting—faster. "God, Dean…harder."

Again Sam silently thanks Dean for his easy acceptance as Dean's hips snap up sharply, driving into him with a relentless ferocity and hunger that almost—almost—matches Sam's own. It doesn't feel _good_ exactly; the positioning isn't quite right for that, but Sam's not all that worried about it. He's using Dean; he knows it, and he's so grateful he could cry that Dean's letting him and he's so grateful for _Dean_ that he wants to make this good for him, the best he can.

Because it might be the last.

Then Dean's hands are on Sam's shoulder blades, and Dean's falling backwards and pulling Sam with him. Sam resists the pull until the angle of Dean's cock changes and then his whole body jumps and shakes when Dean thrusts over/across his prostate. Sam cries out, loudly and sharply. "Yeah," Dean says hoarsely, pleased, one hand teasing and playing on the sensitive and taut skin of Sam's back and the other wrapping warmly around Sam's stiff, dripping cock. "Yeah. C'mon, Sammy; c'mon."

And Sam can't stop making noise, like something's broken in him; it's all tangled up— _he's_ all tangled up—and it sounds like moaning but it also sounds like sobs.

"C'mon," Dean says again, persuasive, still fucking Sam hard and fast. Dean's voice has gotten taut, breaking at the beginning and ends of every sound. "C'mon man; you 'n me."

Sam's shaking so hard. He wants to come and at the same time, he wants to keep going like this forever, riding Dean, hearing that fucked out voice rasp in his ear. He wants to curl up in a little protected shell and he wants to be spread out until he's diffuse as a cloud, and Dean just keeps _touching_ him, inside and out until Sam thinks he finally understand the full impact of the word _penetrated_ …

"Sammy…"

Sam pushes his face up against Dean's throat, feeling the frenetic beat of Dean's heart, syncopated against his own, tasting sweat and soap and the particular flavor of Dean himself in hard frantic mouthings that border on bites.

"Now," Dean groans, arching, breaking, " _now_ , Sammy…come…come with me…fuck…now…"

And Sam does; the orgasm rushing over him almost unexpectedly, drowning him and stealing away all his senses as he comes in gouts of milky semen all over them both and half-crying, half-screaming into Dean's neck. _Me first,_ he thinks, and knows he means something out of the context of this moment entirely, a half articulated promise. _Not you. I'll go first._

It takes time—a long time—for Sam to find his way back to himself; when he does, Dean is running his fingers along Sam's back, carefully off-center, and whispering in Sam's ear, "I got you; it's okay, I got you…"

Sam lifts his head far enough and long enough to kiss Dean, both of them tired enough that it's more like lazy licking. Neither one of them closes their eyes. Finally, Sam lets himself start to slide sideways. Dean's hand halts its aimless swirls and presses Sam to stillness again. "Not yet," Dean says and even though he wasn't half as loud as Sam, he's the one that sounds stripped out and rough. He shifts a little and slips his cock from within Sam, an absence that aches as much as having him stay, which seems oddly profound in Sam's brain-damaged post-coital state. "Just…not yet." Dean stretches, reaches and drags the second moving pad closer again, tugging it up and over them both.

Gratefully, Sam lets his forehead fall back onto Dean's shoulder, breathing in quiet pants against the sweaty dampness of Dean's skin. Dean resumes the gentle lulling up-down on Sam's back and the edges go soft and hazy. Sam fights against sleep, as he does most nights lately, greedy for time and touch.

Sam reaches up and brushes his fingers over Dean's neck. He bit down pretty hard when he came. Dean flinches a little, and Sam feels that the skin is hot and a little puffy, though he doesn't feel the imprint of teeth. "I'm sorry," Sam murmurs, outlining the contours of the mark worriedly. "I didn't mean…"

"I know."

"What…what do you think Dad'll think?"

"Same as ever; that I got lucky with someone I met at the bar," Dean answers easily, and Sam feels a momentary stab of irrational anger-jealousy. He runs his finger over and over the bruise listening to the soft rasp of Dean's breath change and catch as he does. It shouldn't, but it soothes him.

"It's all right, Sam," Dean tells him suddenly. The sound of his voice, rumbling through his skin and simultaneously that close to his ear makes Sam jump.

"I wasn't sleep," Sam denies immediately—an out and out lie—and Dean chuckles.

"Yeah, okay." Dean's fingers outline the curve of Sam's ass; play in the crease of his thigh. After a moment, Dean adds, "You can, you know? Sleep. I'll wake you up when we gotta go. We can stay a while."

Sam's eyes feel about as heavy as lead shutters and even half glued to Dean, he's comfortable. "Sure?" Sam slurs.

"Yeah."

"Need to worry 'bout nosy townies?"

Dean snorts. "Nah, no one ever comes up here."

That strikes Sam as pretty strange. It's a gorgeous spot and not ridiculously far from town. Seems like the kind of place that should be crawling with teenagers and kids. He fights against the soft and insidious coils of sleep tying him down, struggling to put the thought together. "Why?"

"They think it's haunted."

"S'it?" Sam's voice is softer, further away. Everything seems a lot further away, except Dean.

Again that soft and scornful huff of breath, so much Dean. "No. Me and Dad got rid of it couple years ago. Wasn't even all that memorable. Like walking on cake." Dean sounds disgusted and despite himself, Sam laughs, soft helpless chuckles that seem to follow him down, all the way through the corridors of sleep.


End file.
